The New York City Journals, Part III: Good Reasons & Bad Decisions
Manhattan is a good jungle for bad cheetahs.
Shortly after returning to NYC from my Fourth of July trip to the Boston burbs, I settled into my rented bedroom in Stuyvesant Town—my third Manhattan apartment in three months, and the first with a private bedroom and any semblence of a real bed.
Days later, I landed a Thursday through Saturday gig working the VIP door at Webster Hall. My shifts ran from nine at night until three in the morning. Dressed like a 1920s flapper skank in a size-too-small costume dress I found at Salvation Army on Fourth Avenue near Twelfth Street, I held a clipboard, crossing off names as I became more addicted to cocaine than ever before.
Perusing these pages nearly two decades later, I am grinning from ear to ear; it's a benevolent smile, like that of a proud mother front row at a kindergarten Christmas recital, gobsmacked to a shit-eating-grin and captivated till starry-eyed, and this ain't Broadway—it's an awkward kerfuffle; it's a nine a.m. on a Wednesday, parents inside the school cafeteria crowded, clusterfuck.
Still, she beams with joy because it's her mess up there on that stage—and she could ambush the makeshift stage and steal the show, clean things up a bit, but she doesn’t and for good reasons.
I left some pages out this time—for good reasons.
Genuine, kind, is-it-really-necessary-to-reveal-this reasons.
I will disclose this: I met a boy in the Boston burbs, naturally, and I fell in lust, named it love, and then broke his heart; looking back at my documentation, it seems I broke his heart for sport.
Feeding on the emotions of others is inexcusable. I was in the throes of confusion and maladjustment, and slowly, blindly killing myself, starving, though it felt like feeding.
Losing it all, fast as it came.
Every. Single. Time.
If I was in love with anyone that summer, it was Becka. She had so much I envied—a boyfriend who adored her, the Lower East Side apartment they shared without needing roommates, designer bags and jackets, shoes, and makeup. And the good nail polish.
Vicariously, through her; a few hundred bucks on a beauty regimen, thousand dollar shoes, original pressings of albums on vinyl from bands you've never heard of until she invited you in. And I did it to her that summer, too, Becka; I broke her heart.
But she didn’t know that yet—not until I told her five years later when everything changed.
Her apartment, fragrant with Stella McCartney perfume and patchouli, held trinkets, fridge magnets, and framed artwork that ensured Becka was extraordinary. I wouldn't fully appreciate her literary treasures until I stopped trying to be as cool as Becka and became as cool as Ash.
Life is funny like that. Funny in a, hey thanks, asshole way—while flipping off the sky above, I mean.
Anyway…
When I started this raw nerve exposé of the bacchanalia of my roaring twenties, my intention was never libel; my goal was not to transcribe and dissect a past-life opinion piece or blow up anyone's spot like a cold case conviction dug up by advancements in DNA testing.
Such as everything else my keyboard and impulsive nature and running monologue spit out into the ether; there wasn't a plan or an outline or a good reason to release unabridged nonsense I believed when I was a kid, drunk, high, and flashing some Brazilian stranger's passport, she left atop the tank of a public toilet.
I didn't look anything like her, either, passport girl. I don't remember her name, but Becka referred to our criminally shared identity as Consuela. So, we'll go with that.
Yes, every door guy knew me, my name, and my nationality; 2005 was another dimension, though—different rules and regulations, before the inrush of novelty and decreased abstract thinking.
Side note: I turned twenty-one the following summer, and like a civilized person, I sent the passport to the appropriate mailbox.
I didn't do much else quite so decorous in the early aughts, though.
Okay, back to Webster Hall—flapper dress, pillbox hat, fishnet stocking, stilettos. Three nights per week, I contributed to my cocaine fund under the marquee on Eleventh Street and flirted with my underage boss like it was my job.
And just like that, I was a crouching cheetah again.
Just like that, I was hungry again.
Not for love, or sex, or companionship—
I was starving for attention and acceptance, which I didn't know was an inside job, so I sought it out in someone else.
Every. Single. Time.
Especially if the prey was my boss. Even my seventeen-year-old boss.
If you're out there, KB, I am not sorry for writing you into my life story as the youngest ever yield of a hunt. However, you did deserve better for your first romp than smudged lipstick and bloated cheeks.
I wonder what those six weeks looked like through his eyes. Did we go to an Eminem concert together, or did I dream that?
Hunting. Hunting. Hunting.
I can't tell you for sure whether my perceived prey was trophy prize or a void filler.
But I can say with absolute certainty that the hunger grew more insatiable until I hunted myself instead—trapped self, dissected self, transcribed self, and blew up my spot.
Tonight, I sent two omitted pages to the boy from the Boston burbs for his reminiscing.
"Oh, to be young again," the reply back read.
Can I be Becka this time?
I'm joking.
I like it here amongst my tchotchkes, magnets, framed artwork, and literature; I even have the good nail polish. But a time machine? No. I wouldn't go back, either way.
Young me makes it here—she arrives, and that's a good reason to keep growing;
For the twenty-year-old with messy handwriting and her forty-year-old translator, sitting here like a proud mother front row at a kindergarten Christmas recital, gobsmacked to a shit-eating-grin and captivated till starry-eyed, knowing my little mess is gonna be just fine.
